


When You Wake Up, It’s A New Morning

by luninosity



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Holidays, Love, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt that simply stated <i>Erik/Charles, peace and goodwill to all men</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Wake Up, It’s A New Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [telperion_15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/gifts).



> Title from the Foo Fighters’ cover of Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street”: _when you wake up, it’s a new morning/ the sun is shining, it’s a new morning/ you’re going, you’re going home…_

Erik, if asked in the daylight, under the cool winter sun, would proclaim firmly that he doesn’t believe in peace. Or in goodwill to all men. He’d like to add that he never has, but that’s not true; he remembers, distantly, being a child, once, secure in the knowledge of his family’s love. That idyll hadn’t lasted long, of course. But he does remember.

Charles, he thinks, sitting up; and looks at the sleeping body beside him in the bed, time-worn now and familiar and relaxed and _Erik’s_ , every inch of him, the same way that Erik’s his, including the arm currently flung above that head on the pillow and likely getting chilly there. Erik wants to tuck it back under blankets, and doesn’t want to disturb much-needed rest with the motion. Impossible choices, he thinks, with affection: Charles always does present them.

Charles believes in peace. Would say that Erik does, as well, that that’s why Erik’s here at his side at last. Because that distant future might yet happen, could still happen. In a myriad of different ways, of course, they can and have imagined all the alternate possibilities, the ones in which they fight and die alone or half-together or never together at all, in which peace and stability come at the cost of bloodshed and pain.

The future they want, the future they choose, every day, is a different one from all of those possibilities: if the two of them can find peace, together, surely the world can, too. After all, if he and Charles are capable of greatness separately, they should certainly be able to change one little universe together.

Together, he thinks, and smiles. Charles, doubtless sensing that emotion even in dreams, no secrets between them here, smiles back, without waking. The blankets cuddle his form sleepily, and invite Erik back to join the coziness.

He will. In a moment. Sometimes he just likes to stay awake and watch Charles—who, when he awakens, will tease Erik about being a dirty old man and then pull him back into the pillows and proceed to challenge him for the title—and remind himself, breathless, that this is his life. Their life. Their choice—not his, not alone, not when Charles chooses every day to let him back in, to forgive him all over again.

Erik does some forgiving as well, of course. They’ve done terrible things to and for each other, over the years. These days the terrible things tend not to involve literal apocalypses, but the arguments can feel equally earthshattering, the days when they disagree about training methods for the students, the icy nights when Charles refuses to admit to pain and Erik loses his temper and says snide things about acceptance and Charles forgets any semblance of tact in heated reply.

What _is_ the proper plural of apocalypse, he wonders, idly. The blankets, and the indigo wash of the night, don’t know or choose not to tell.

Out in the world, it’s nearly Christmas; two days, not that Erik’s particularly counting. He does have a present for Charles, though. For them both, actually. It’s really about time.

Their arguments never do shatter the earth, these days, at its core, because that core is made of something stronger than momentary anger and frustration. Something that sings like iron to his senses, like his own heartbeat; tastes like pineapple ice-cream after dinner and Earl Grey kisses in the morning, hot tea with too much sugar; and feels like fuzzy sweaters and smooth skin, in his head.

Charles stirs, at Erik’s unformed flutter of want; not erotic, precisely, though that’s in there too, but pure contentment, so clear his heart aches with the sensation. Like the definition of _right_. Like the sky before sunrise, trembling with imminent color, overjoyed.

Charles yawns. Says, drowsily, _if you’re going to be poetic at this time of night at least come here and hold me while you do it_ , and Erik laughs, and slides back into the bed, and puts both arms around him, and rubs his back until all the thoughts drift off into the velvet dark of sleep, Charles safe and warm and comfortable being held.

His arm, the one now being pinned under happy weight, starts falling asleep after a while, but that’s okay. He’s not planning to move.

Goodwill toward all men, that’s harder; he’s not certain either of them can honestly say _all_ , there. Not himself, at any rate. Not Charles, either, though that’s more complicated; Charles knows as well as or better than Erik precisely what evil can lurk in the hearts of men—and, all right, Erik may or may not have a secret fondness for The Shadow and his crimson-lined cape—but Charles chooses to believe, in the face of all evidence and his own personal childhood hell, that people as a whole are worth saving, and that he can save them all, one by one if he has to, with earnest words and wide blue eyes.

Erik wants to argue with this optimism, but he can’t, because he’s seen it proved true too many times by now. And, in any case, he himself is here with his arms around Charles, so. Not much room for argument there.

It’s not naïve optimism. He knows that, too. It’s a defense mechanism. And Erik understands defenses and propped-up walls, and when Charles’s walls are in danger of slipping, Erik can shore them up, because Charles trusts him to do so. With a touch, a kiss, a heroic whisking-off-to-the-bedroom if necessary or even if only desired: reminders that Erik _is_ still here, that happy endings can happen, that love exists and can be more real than all the hurt.                             

Christmas, he thinks, in two days. Not his holiday, of course, but Charles likes the festivities. And Erik likes Charles. He’s tempted to propose the day before, though, just so those bright eyes, which’ve probably guessed that something’s in the works but have heroically resisted peeking, won’t be expecting it.

Perhaps he will. He likes surprising Charles. Not many people can. He takes pride in the fact that he’s one of the few. He believes that Charles appreciates that, too.

_I do._

_Go back to sleep._

_Stop thinking about me, then._

_Never._

_Oh…all right, then. Love you._

_Love you, too. Always_. He kisses Charles, very softly, just above that left eyebrow; Charles laughs, a little, and settles an arm over his waist, and they stay still for a moment, just breathing in unison.

So maybe he can’t find goodwill for _all_ men in his heart. But he can for one man. _This_ man. And that’ll be enough. Because it is. Every day. And every night.

_Always_ , Charles says, and repositions his head on Erik’s shoulder, and Erik believes in peace.


End file.
